


Like a Purple Flower Cut By the Plow

by Zdenka



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fratricide, Treat, Writing rainbow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-05 22:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20496680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zdenka/pseuds/Zdenka
Summary: Medea ensures her and Jason's escape from Colchis, at any cost.





	Like a Purple Flower Cut By the Plow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Scytale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scytale/gifts).

> Written for the Writing Rainbow flash exchange.

If Medea turns her head back, she can see the fury on her father’s face. The two ships are almost within bowshot, if her father wished to use archers. She thinks he will prefer to close in and board; he will want the satisfaction of dragging back his disobedient daughter with his own hands. And Jason—

“Faster,” Jason says tightly. His hand is on his swordhilt, his face turned to watch the pursuers behind them. The rowers’ muscles are straining; the oars churn the water into white. They cannot go faster. And her father’s ship is gaining on them, its deck bristling with warriors and sharp-tipped spears.

She feels a grip on her arm; it makes her startle. She turns to see Absyrtus clutching at her. “Medea,” he says quietly. “What will Father do to us?”

“He won’t do anything to you,” Medea says detachedly. “You are a son.” But for her—Perhaps he wouldn’t kill her either. He might only shame her, imprison her, and eventually allow her back into his good graces.

She puts her hand to the breast of her robe. There are a few things she would not entrust to anyone else: the most valuable and rarest of her herbs, slips of papyrus with mystic incantations to Hecate. And a small glass bottle, containing a quick and painless poison. She could avoid that shame and capture. And then? If she closes her eyes she can see it: her father’s triumph, the deck of the Argo awash in blood, Jason beaten down by sheer numbers and hauled back to Colchis in bonds for a slow and painful death.

No. Defiant fury rises within her. She will not submit; she will fight to the end, using every weapon she has. She will live—they will live, she and Jason together. She will not give up love and freedom.

She looks up to see Jason approaching her. “Medea. Can you aid us once again with your arts? Can you stop him from catching us?” She opens her lips but does not speak.

Jason rests his hand on her shoulder. “If he overtakes us, we will fight. With or without your magic, I believe we will win.” His confident smile is not quite convincing.

Medea raises her head. “Yes,” she says distantly. “I have a way. Go, bid your men make ready for battle, and do not fear.” She sees the flash of relief in his eyes. He trusts her, and that thought steels her for what is to come.

Medea waits until Jason has gone to rally his warriors; somehow, she cannot do this with his eyes on her. “Absyrtus,” she says gently. “Brother. You want to help, don’t you?”

He looks determined. “Of course! What do I have to do?”

She hands him a small glass bottle. “Drink this.”

He loosens the stopper and sniffs at the bottle doubtfully. “Does it taste bad?”

Medea puts her arms around his shoulders and strokes his curling hair. “No,” she says. “It doesn’t.”

Her brother tilts back his head and drinks. She holds him, until the bottle falls from his lax fingers, until he goes limp in her arms. Then she lays him gently down on the deck.

She rests a hand on his chest, feeling the stillness there. She has the impulse to close his staring eyes, a false promise of rest and decorum. Without looking up, she says, “One of you, give me a sword.”

After a few moments, Jason says sharply, “Do it.”

Medea takes the offered hilt in her hand. She can do this; it is no different than cutting up a calf or a ram for sacrifice. She grips it well, raises it, and the bronze blade flashes down in the sunlight.

She can hear the wails of grief from the other ship, when they see what she holds in her arms. The crew of the Argo is completely silent.

Once they are away and safe, once the sun’s chariot has passed below the horizon and darkness conceals them from sight, Medea retires into her sleeping quarters: a small tent pitched on the deck, out of respect for the modesty of their leader’s plighted bride. She sits down on a wooden chest and loosens her hair to comb it out before bed.

She becomes aware that she is deeply weary, her limbs heavy, and she lets her hand with the comb fall to her lap. There is a speck of blood under one of her nails. She is crying, she realizes distantly, hot tears sliding down her cheeks. She clenches her jaw, letting not a sound escape her. The tears keep coming, as fast as she wipes them away.

Jason enters the tent, letting the flap fall closed behind him. “Medea?”

She fiercely brushes away the tears, impatient of weakness.

He takes a step closer. “You saved all our lives today.” His voice is not quite steady.

She rises, letting the comb slip to the deck. He has taken off his armor, washed the traces of battle from his face and arms. She flings herself at him desperately, pressing her face against his neck. He is stiff for a moment, and then he relaxes against her, putting his arms around her. She leans into his warmth for a moment, but it is not enough. She fumbles frantically at his belt, hearing his breath catch.

“Jason,” she says fiercely, “I need—” She pulls him into a kiss.

He is as eager as she, his blood hot from the day’s battle and their close escape from death. Her woven girdle is loosed with one tug and slips to the floor. He pushes her robe down to bare her shoulders, pressing kisses against her skin. She pulls him with her into her pile of bedding, his body a warm weight against hers, and for a while all the whirling thoughts in her head are stilled.

Afterwards, she holds him in her arms, her fingers pressed tightly against the warm skin of his back. She can feel the rise and fall of his chest, the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat. She closes her eyes and doesn’t let herself think of anything else.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired more or less loosely by the following freeform tags:
> 
> Grief/Mourning  
Ill advised sex to deal with grief  
Just break my heart please  
Look At Your Life Look At Your Choices


End file.
